


One time the Winchesters were pining for the fjords

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-16
Updated: 2007-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-2.11 (All Hell Breaks Loose pt.1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One time the Winchesters were pining for the fjords

*

Dean brakes so hard and so fast that the back wheels lock, car spinning round ’til he’s almost facing back the way he came. Which means he’s got a perfect view of the two bedraggled figures standing by the roadside. He at least has the sense of mind left to guide the car the last few feet onto the gritty-grass shoulder, then he’s out and leaving the door ajar, sawn-off in one fist and flask of holy water in the other.

Dad at least has sense enough to raise his hands in the air as Dean storms toward him; Sam just hunches his shoulders down and scowls, hands fisted in his pockets.

“Dean,” Dad says when Dean gets within earshot, levels the shotgun right at them, braced on his other forearm. “It’s not what you think.”

“Yeah?” Dean growls, and can’t help it, can’t control his voice. Can barely control the entire enraged thrum and hurt of his body. “And what is it that I think?”

“We’re not… we’re not _haunting_ you, son, we’re–”

“We’re not ghosts, or demons, or shapeshifters,” Sam interrupts. “Or– or anyone but ourselves.” He throws his hands in the air, turns the scowl to Dad. “I told you this wouldn’t be easy,” he says, mouth twisting.

“Not _now_, Sammy,” Dad says, almost spitting it out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s _Sam_,” Sam hisses, deadly quiet, and Dad lowers his hands at that, from shoulder to chest height and around in front of him, curled into a claw-like pose of tension. Like he’s about to throttle something.

“I said, _now’s not the time_, Sa–”

“Enough!” Dean shouts, cutting Dad off with a sharp gesture of the gun barrel. “All I know is you’re both… You’re both dead.”

“Yeah,” Sammy says, and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, one of those quirks of Dean’s he’d picked up in his hero-worship phase. “About that…”

“We were dead, Dean,” Dad says, calm and quiet, like he’s always told Dean the things he knew Dean would have trouble hearing, even if they were both keeping a stiff upper lip about it. “We were in Hell. But…”

Sam heaves a heavy sigh, meets Dean’s eyes. “We got kicked out.”

Dean lowers the shotgun a little. “Kicked out?”

Sam nods; Dean turns to John, who grimaces, but dips his head in affirmation also.

“Out of Hell?”

“Yeah.”

“Christo.” They both stare at him patiently, unflinching; he inches forward a little closer and damps the front of Dad’s green shirt, still bloodstained around the collar, with holy water. Dean’s mouth twists a little with involuntary guilt as he backs up again and no steam’s hissed up. A quick jab from the point of the dagger kept in Dean’s sleeve and Sam yelps, jerks his hand to suck the tiny wound automatically into his mouth. Dean grabs his wrist, pulls back down again to inspect the welling of red blood, not yellow.

Huh.

Suddenly, Dean’s throat is a little tight, and the dusty green world around him a little blurry. He shoves the still-open flask into his pocket, presses the heel of the palm against his burning eyes. The sun’s a little too bright, so he squeezes them shut. Dad and Sam feel big and real and warm, and he finds dried blood on the back of Sam’s jacket when his fingers clench there. Dad’s hair is filthy, greasy, smells like sulphur with Dean’s nose in it.

Dad’s on his fourth black coffee and Sam’s still shovelling down pie like there’s no tomorrow, but Dean’s gut is yet to settle enough to be hungry again. “So wait,” he says again, running the callused pad of his thumb across the blunt blade of the butter knife over and over. “You got kicked out of hell for _fighting?_“

Dad grimaces a little, like he finds the thought of being thrown out of Hell like a schoolkid, bickering and scrapping in the schoolyard, distasteful. And yet.

“He started it,” Sam says, spraying pastry crumbs across the table and into Dad’s half-full coffee cup.

Dad’s mouth firms further into a frown. “Sammy–”

“IT’S SAM!” Sam bellows, head back and fists clenched around his spoon and fork. Dean blinks at him, suddenly the only sound in the diner the hissing of hamburger meat on the griddle, until Sam starts scarfing pie again.

Dad’s giving Dean an almost imploring look, as if expecting Dean to take _sides_ in this.

“So they kicked both of you out, huh,” Dean says. “I guess just sending you to separate rooms wasn’t enough?”

“Nope,” Sam says, slanting a bitter look in Dad’s direction, then eyes narrowing as he leans in toward Dean. “_They_ figured,” he says, enunciating with exagerrated clearness. “That’d be more of a punishment _not_ to separate us.” He gestures between himself and Dad with the fork. “Y’know. Hell and all.”

Dean’s almost forgotten how much of a little bitch Sammy can be when he puts his mind to it.

Dad eases his back against the booth, movements controlled and careful, though Dean can see that his knuckles are about as white as the cheap porcelain of the coffee mug. “Just keep on eating up that pie, boy,” Dad says to Sam, calm as you please. “Because I sure as hell ain’t paying for it.”

“Oh,” Sam says, jabbing the air with a fork. “You’ll pay. You will _pay_.”

Dean sighs and waves for the check. For old time’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/54101.html


End file.
